Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-seven

Taking a nap is sometimes the absolute wrong thing to do, even if you're really, really tired. At least it is for me. Sometimes, waking up from a nap leaves me feeling jellylike, weak and not wanting to wake up at all. Sometimes I get more tired waking up from a nap than I was before taking the nap. Like this time.

So, naturally, I woke up late from my nap and had to jump in a cab, as opposed to taking the L, like I usually did. It's not like I had a time card to punch or anything, but I just didn't like being late ... to anything ... especially a gig. But, since I was late, and I needed to wake up, I had Tarriq take the long way to Andy's and drive down Michigan Avenue.

Michigan Avenue is pretty nice any time of the year, but there's something about the holidays that makes it bit more special—sort of romantic. Lights are strung up on all the trees lining Michigan Avenue, snow lightly falls, and horses lead carriages everywhere. I was feeling sort of sentimental.

Given the magical, tonic emotions that Michigan Avenue evokes this time of the year, I've always found it peculiar that the city seems to clear out every year at Christmas. It seems not a lot of people are from Chicago; they just come here to work, and live and vacation and celebrate holidays elsewhere.

Not that Andy's was always packed, but around this time, two days before the big day, Andy's was no exception to the clear-out rule. By the way, I have my own rules about playing around this time of the year. I usually do early sets, because it ends up being too depressing playing for only Marge and Jerry and whomever else manages to walk in off the street. So, I'd start a little earlier and end a little earlier. Surprisingly, Andy had no problem with the rule.

After my peaceful Michigan Avenue excursion, I arrived at Andy's to a dank, dark, depressing, and practically empty venue. As I imagined, Jerry and Marge shared the bar with a Jack Daniels, a Budweiser, and two guys I've never seen before. All the passion restored by my encounter with Helena Storm vanished with one step into that place. I needed a change. I needed a challenge. I needed a drink.

"You're late, asshole." Andy greeted me with his usual warmth and congeniality.

"OK, thanks for the update, chief ... How about some Colorado Kool-Aid." Coors Light—it's what Max and I used to drink in college, and for some reason, I felt like having one right now.

"Start playing, you got a crowd here," Andy said.

"Yeah, they're chomping at the bit, waiting for some classy music." I said in a harsh Chicago accent.

"C'mon, Sammy. Get started. We're all waiting," Marge yelled.

"Jesus Christ, give me a chance to take off my jacket."

"Take it all off, Sammy!" Marge yelled again, and followed with a laugh so deep and guttural, it sounded like she might have injured something deep within herself.

"Good one, Marge," I said as I hung my jacket behind the bar and grabbed the Coors Light. It sure didn't taste the same as it did in college, but it'd do in a pinch.

The piano seat felt cold. Like it'd been outside in the frigid December air for a couple days. I blew on my hands; thinking for some reason blowing on my hands would warm my butt. It didn't work. With my butt a bit chilled, I played some scales to warm up my fingers.

When Ben played his shows, he'd start off every one with scales ... he had a set routine. He'd do ten arpeggios and five scales in thirds, working the keyboard up and down simultaneously. Those who knew Ben knew what to expect. Those who didn't know were put off by the gall of this musician wasting their time on something that should be done before the show.

As an ode to Ben, I thought I'd start incorporating the scales in my shows, or whatever you'd call what I was doing. The scales made me focus, and that focus was now the first step into the Buddha Zone.